


if you're gonna make, it might as well matter

by detectivemeer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College, Derek Hale & Scott McCall Friendship, Growing Up, Healing, Lydia Martin & Scott McCall Friendship, Recovery, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Self-Acceptance, Slice of Life, kira yukimura & scott mccall friendship, malia tate & scott mccall friendship - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5656312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivemeer/pseuds/detectivemeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So maybe he wore a Superman costume under his clothes for the entirety of fifth grade, so what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you're gonna make, it might as well matter

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Break, Shatter, Make, Matter" by Josh Pyke  
> takes place in some vague future college time where theo is a distant unpleasant memory and scott finally finds the time to start looking out for himself. really just unrepentant schmoopiness bc i just want this boy to be happy goddamnit  
> oh also extremely outdated spoilers for the kreutzer sonata and game of thrones

Scott grabs his iPod, hovers outside his mom’s bedroom for a second to check her heartbeat, and parkours himself onto the roof. There is, he can’t deny, still a certain rush of _holy fucking shit_ , every time he does something totally impossible and cool. It’s vain and silly, but it sends a warm tingle under his skin, a smile unfurling across his face. So maybe he wore a Superman costume under his clothes for the entirety of fifth grade, so what?

He lies back against the shingles and takes a deep, clear breath. Beacon Hills is squirreled away just enough that nearby cities’ light pollution doesn't touch them. The stars are bright and many, clustered into incredible, galactic light shows. The night is soft crescent moonlight, whistling crickets, sweet dew and a ghostly breeze, kissing his bare arms and face. He sticks his earbuds in and clicks play, watching the dawn crawl over hills and the world wake up.

-

“I’m gonna take an art class,” he says.

“What?” asks Stiles, tossing him a glance over his shoulders, marker cap muffling his speech.

“I’m taking an art class, at the Y.”

Scott smiles and stifles a laugh. Stiles hasn’t changed since they were five; he emotes every thought on his face, visibly cycling through various responses and general confusion before deciding on: “Why?”

Scott shrugs, balls up his crummy sketch of the view out of Stiles’ window. “I don’t know how. It looks fun.”

“Yeah, because our lives are so dull. No excitement here.” Scott laughs, obligingly, and doesn’t elaborate. Stiles faces his board again, continues scribbling notes, and Scott turns back to the books on the bed, calling out helpful tidbits for Stiles to add.

-

Bacon grease, spinach stems, piles of crumbled gouda. Scott pokes his tongue between his teeth and presses the spatula against the browning sourdough. It hisses and cheese spits out its sides, sizzling against the bubbling oil beneath.

Mozart tickles the ivories and Scott flips the sandwich onto a plate. His phone buzzes. He bites his bottom lip, regards the plate, regards his phone, and sighs.

Kira: _Did you finish the thing for stats class?_

Scott: _yeah_

Kira: _Can I pretty please go over mine with you it’s killing me_

Kira: _pleeeeeeease with cherries and everlasting love on top_

Scott jumps on the counter, folding his legs up criss-cross-applesauce. He sets his plate in his lap.

Scott: _is later okay? I just made lunch_

Kira: _I’ll swing around tonight? 7ish? Pizza and soda on me_

Scott: _rope Malia into it so we can all go over lit together_

The phone goes face down beside his knee and he takes a huge, uncouth bite of sandwich. An inappropriate moan rumbles from his throat. Greasy, gooey, salty, spicy. He licks runaway pesto off his knuckle and closes his eyes, humming along and conducting the symphony spilling out of the radio speakers with his sandwich. A hunk of bacon plops onto his plate. His phone buzzes, he eats the bacon, wipes his hand on a dishtowel, and checks it.

Kira: _She’s in but wants burgers and netflix. Sleepover?_

Scott grins, wolfs down another bite.

Scott: _extra ketchup and tell her she can’t complain about romantic comedies when we outvote her again_

-

Scott draws twigs. Lots of twigs.

Different twigs different ways, the same twig the same way thirty times. He’s not very good with a pencil but it’s hard to mess up a twig. He collects them while on a walk, or sketches them on a park bench, notebook on his knees. Gnarled and rough. Small and smooth. Twisting, straight, brown, rotting.

He lines them up on his windowsill to bake in the sun and figures out the shadows of different times of day.

-

“Frappé for Scott!” Juan yells and Scott smiles. Juan puts one hand over his eyes like a visor. “Scott? Is there a Scott here?”

“You should do stand up,” Scott says, plucking the extra chocolate chip, extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle out of his hand.

“I am pretty hilarious,” Juan agrees, folding his arms and leaning over the counter on his elbows. The café is empty save for them and Juan’s snickering coworker Shelly, because Scott’s only free period is also their deadest hour.

Scott sips through the straw and rolls his eyes. “Thank you for the excellent service as always Shelly,” he says, tucking a few bills into the tip jar.

Shelly winks and says, “Of course, Scott, you are my favorite customer after all.”

Juan clutches his chest. “What is this mutiny?” Scott waves goodbye at Shelly, laughing at Juan’s pained cries as the door rings shut.

-

Scott juggles his anatomy textbook, his foil wrapped empanada, and his phone, and shoves the latter between ear and shoulder, answering with a stilted, “‘Lo?”

“Scott--” Kira says.

“Scott Kira’s a liar!” Malia shouts.

“Scott Malia’s a liar _and_ a thief.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Scott groans, pushing a door open with his back. “No, no, I am not your mediator. This never ends well, I am not doing this, I am hanging up now.”

“Just tell her to respect my--”

“--sorry I need iron in my diet--”

“--and I was almost done with the diorama when--”

“--who uses steak in an art project? That’s not art that’s--”

“Goodbye!” He holds the empanada in his mouth while he disconnects and shoves his phone into his back pocket. It immediately starts buzzing with what he assumes are just texts of the poop emoji.

-

He checks his phone during a mind numbing lecture. A dozen poop emojis from Kira, five poop emojis and one of a gun from Malia. He quickly covers his laugh with a coughing fit and smiles sheepishly when the professor shoots him a thin-lidded glare.

-

“Um,” says the instructor, squinting. “It’s very inventive, Scott.”

Scott beams. He looks at his purple and blue watercolor of his favorite twig--it has a knot in the shape of a bird--and nods. It’s freakin’ awesome.

-

“Are you meditating?” asks Stiles, flopping down on Scott’s bed.

Scott doesn’t open his eyes, just _mmm’s_ softly.

“That’s weird. You’re weird.” Stiles throws something at his head.

Scott inhales positive energy, exhales negative energy. “Holy shit, you’re seriously meditating?” Inhale, exhale. He thinks of the moon like a magnet. It’s push and pull, give and take. Magnets can be equal attracting, repelling forces. The moon pulls and pulls and he let’s it, to a point, and then he pushes. It’s a relationship; he is not owned. He takes and he gives. Inhale, exhale.

“Huh,” says Stiles. “Okay. Uh, have fun? I’ll see you in the quad, Scotty. And don’t forget the firecrackers.” Stiles closes the door with a quick snick.

Scott allows himself a tiny smile.

-

Scott blocks the whole day off. The hush of the museum is nice--quiet chatter, thoughtful hums. He passes a group of school kids on a field trip. Their excitement is a bright contrast to the soft, respectful voices of other museum goers. They’re as loud and demanding a presence as the art itself.

He lingers in front of “Agonía” and Rufino Tamayo’s “Untitled” for a long time, his own sketchbook crushed tight in his hands. A piece of him is in those frames, he thinks, nonsensically. Something stolen, something given. His throat tightens around them both.

“Mayan Themes” he sits with, too, for a time. #15 draws him in the most. The color, the chaos. It soothes and elates him.

He carries on. His watercolor sticks and crude sketches feel at once an embarrassment and a triumph. He is far removed from these masters, and yet, apart of them, simply for trying.

“Tehuana” is such pure joy. He copies a miniature, black-and-white woman in his book, with an asterisk at the bottom corner of the page. He tucks away the notebook and charcoal while winding through the sculptures. Three kids zoom past him, chased by a very beleaguered and red-faced chaperone. He laughs into his collar as he watches them zip by and around the corner.

He plans his exploration carefully, ending up exactly where he wants to. A girl is standing in front of it. He settles in silently next to her.

Her black hair is pulled back, glasses wide, nose snub. She must be a few years younger than him, short and layered thickly in bright shirts. She says, awestruck, “Right?”

He glances away from her, to the painting. The peace is larger than him--it stretches from the frame to the girl, through his chest and through the walls.

“Yeah,” he says. He’s too caught up to notice when she leaves. He takes a breath. He doesn’t know how long he’s supposed to stand. He wants a moment, a crescendo, something to tell him, _you’ve done it, you’ve got it, you may leave._

But it doesn’t come. “Mujer con Olla” gives him nothing but that graceful, sweeping peace in the empty room.

He leaves with a couple informational pamphlets and a dull charcoal tucked into his pockets.

Scott clicks his phone off silent and grins when he sees the twenty new text message alerts. A warm feeling balloons inside his chest, spreads down through his fingers and toes. He’s a part; he’s loved; he’s connected to this world, these people, himself. All of it settles with a happy glow under his skin. He ignores the texts for now, goes to his favorites, touches ‘call’.

“Hey, mom,” he says, wandering down the sidewalk, keeping an eye open for somewhere to grab a bite. “Yeah, I just got out of the exhibit. God, it was amazing. I’m taking you down here. Yeah. Well, okay, first--”

-

“Aren’t you a little young to be here?” she asks. She is gorgeous. It hits him like a baseball bat, her beauty. Long, black ringlets, hooded eyes with a complicated liner design, pouted, painted red mouth, twisted into a knowing smirk. She can’t be more than a few years older than he is, but she has an air of eternity; she’s lived and lived well.

“You can check my ID,” he offers, a little stuttered, fingers flexing around his glass. The club’s music is thunderously loud, bass beating in his ribcage harder than his heart.

“That’s okay, doll,” she says, sliding into the booth next to him. “I’m only teasing. You’re so cute, is all.”

“Uh,” says Scott, blinking and oh, _God_ , he hasn’t been this bad at flirting since he was a teenager. She smells like pot and vanilla and coconut. Her dark skin is flecked with glitter, a thin sheen of sweat. His tongue shrivels up and dies and he gapes at her.

She laughs, tipping her head back. It’s clearly at his expense, but it doesn’t have a mean edge. She slips her hand around his bicep and tugs gently. “C’mon, cutie, you haven’t had a dance all night, have you?”

“No.” He goes with her, lets her pull him into the crowd, lets her pull him close, close, hot hands on the back of his neck, teeth bright and glowing underneath the neon. They dance for more songs than he bothers to keep track of, laughing and swinging around the densely packed space.

“My girlfriend needs to steal me away,” she says, pointing out a woman with a shaved head and long red dress, eyes crinkled with a sweet smile, phone in her hands. “Thanks for the dance, cutie!” She smacks a kiss to his cheek and weaves out of the crowd. Scott waves goodbye, but they’ve already turned away.

He grins to himself, buys a glass of water at the bar, and leans over to the guy in the stool next to him who’s stirring his scotch and soda with a toothpick, shoulders slumped and defeated.

“Hey,” he shouts over the music, feeling buoyant and brave, licking water off his upper lip. “You wanna dance?”

-

Scott draws Juan in profile. It’s not very good, but it’s better. He’s getting better.

He pokes his tongue through his teeth, brow furrowed, trying to shade his cheekbones right.

“If I asked you to draw me like one of your French girls,” Juan says, sliding into the seat across from Scott, “would that make me a total cliche?”

“Yes,” says Scott, smiling and setting his pencil down. “And my class hasn’t even gotten around to figure studies, yet, so it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“I don’t know,” Juan smiles. “I wouldn’t mind being your guinea pig.”

Scott sips at his tea. “Don’t you have a store to run?” he asks, teasing.

“Yes!” Shelly yells from behind the counter.

“No,” Juan says. “Slow day. You looked lonely.”

Scott shrugs, because he wasn’t, really, but he doesn’t want to rebuff Juan. He takes advantage of a close subject to fill in the smaller details of Juan’s face--the wrinkles at the corner of his eye, the upward tug of his mouth, the shadow of his nose. Juan’s game for it, too, quietly observing as Scott sketches for a few minutes. Scott folds his notebook closed and tucks his charcoal behind his ear, sips the last of his tea until only the dregs are left. He stretches a bit, and Juan jumps up when he stands.

“Hey,” Juan says, quickly, hands clenching at his sides, “would you--do you want to go out on a date? We could…” he licks his lips, looks up with a smile. “We could go dancing.”

Scott grins at the memory--dragging Juan, a stranger then, onto the dance floor, losing him in the shuffle of bodies, meeting him again at the café--but shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, when Juan looks away, crestfallen. “It’s really, really not you. You’re cute and funny and a great dancer. But I’m not in a place for a relationship right now.”

“Yeah,” Juan nods, “yeah, okay. I get that. I just, y’know, I had to ask.”

Scott smiles softly to himself, a light blush spreading over his ears. Juan is _very_ cute, and nice, and knowing Juan is interested is, he has to admit, quite the ego boost. “Mind if I still come here for tea? You guys really do serve the best.”

“Oh, of course.” Juan looks up, speaking quickly. “Of--yeah, Scott, jeez. I wouldn’t--I won’t make it weird, I promise. You really are my best customer, too.” He tries for a grin.

Scott matches it encouragingly. “Okay. I’ll see you around?” He hefts his bag over his shoulder, lingering.

Juan waves him off, turning towards the counter. “See you around.”

Scott tries to refocus his hearing, walking quickly down the street as Shelly comforts a dejected Juan. Finally, he’s out of range, and he sighs. Guilt nags at him, but he squashes it. It would have been cruel to go out with Juan once, knowing it wouldn’t work out. And besides: Scott didn’t want to. He can say no. He can not want things.

He buys himself a smoothie on the way back to campus, because he _does_ want to, and resolves to go out dancing more often because he had sort of forgotten about it but honestly, that was a great night.

-

“Lydia’s den of iniquity, how may I serve you?”

“ _Fuck_ _you_ , Scott,” Lydia says, hopping and scratching her sharp fingernails over his arms, trying to snatch her phone.

“Lyds, _Lydia_ ,” Scott laughs, “it’s on mute, oh my God.”

“Oh.” She huffs, tugs at her sarong.

“You’re so short,” he says, almost impressed. “And you really like this girl, huh?”

“Shut up.” She’s _blushing_. This is too good. Lydia grabs her phone and stalks away, speaking hushedly. She’s still blushing when she hangs up and rejoins him on the towel, but her eyes are calm. Sparkly, even.

“You’re in _looove_ ,” he teases, poking her belly.

She shoves away his hand and tosses suntan lotion at his face, which he catches with ease. “Shut up and rub.”

“That’s what--”

“I swear to God.” She looks up at the open, blue sky. “Why do I bother?” He massages the lotion gently along her shoulders and back, lifting her string bikini strap to smooth it under the skin there. She carefully smears it over his nose and cheeks when he’s finished. He raises his brows in question, since his powers won’t let him burn, and she shrugs. “It makes you look cute.”

They settle on their stomachs, stretched out along the towel. His toes dig into the sand; she bends her knees and hooks her ankles together. He slips a book out of his bag, cracking it open.

Lydia says, “Oh, ew, no. He kills his wife and it’s totally boring.”

Scott sighs. “Thank you, Lydia. Really.”

“I’m saving you an hour of your life, you _should_ be grateful. And who brings Tolstoy to the beach?”

Scott returns the book, selects a different one, and opens it to its dogeared page. “Do _not_ spoil this one, or I’ll throw you in the ocean.”

She gives an _as if_ snort and flips her hair over her shoulders, lying her head down on her crossed arms. Scott reads and lets the susurrus of her heartbeat and the crashing waves fade pleasantly in the background. After only twenty or so pages, Lydia tips the cover of _La milagrosa_ closed, and grabs both of Scott’s hands.

“Come on,” she says. He laughs as she tugs with all her strength and he shifts on the towel. She plants her feet firmly in the sand and pulls. “Get--your--big--wolfy butt-- _up_!” He springs and tackles her, scooping her up and over his shoulder.

“Unfair!” she cries, giggling and kicking out. “Put me down, put me down!”

“If you insist,” he says, and plops her into the water. It comes up to her knees and she pulls off her wet sarong, balling it up and throwing it towards their spot. She punches his shoulder.

“You’re lucky I haven’t actually read that book of yours,” she says.

He hooks an arm around her shoulder, kisses her temple. “I’ll loan it to you when I’m done.”

“Oberyn dies and it’s awful.”

“What?” he asks, aghast. She cackles and he wraps his arms around her waist, spinning her deeper into the surf. “You are the worst!”

Her laughter is as bright as the sunshine and he soaks it up just as joyfully. They splash around, roll under a few waves, and float happily on their back, watching an airplane mozy through the cloudless sky.

“It’s really good to see you,” he says, when they’re sitting at the edge of the shore, toes rhythmically kissed by the lapping tide.

She bumps their shoulders. “Massachusetts is remarkably boring. I mean, the work is great. But I haven’t been chased by monsters once there.”

He taps his chin innocently. “I thought Jackson came to visit just a few months ago?”

She snorts, nudges him away. “Very funny. I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Please do.” His grin wanes, he links their fingers together. “Five years,” he says, full of emotions he doesn’t want to name.

“Five years,” she agrees. “God. I feel so old and so young. I hate it. I miss her every fucking day.” He nods, knocks their heads together, leaning on each other. “Every fucking day,” she repeats, voice miserably tight.

“Every fucking day,” he agrees, nose stuffed, eyes stinging. “But she’s still with us. They all are.”

“They always will be.”

“Yeah,” says Scott, heavy and sad and smiling. They squeeze one another’s hands and watch distant boats bob along the horizon.

-

Derek swallows him in a warm hug. Scott smiles into Derek’s shoulder for a moment before pulling away, clapping him once on the back. He settles criss-cross on the ground, stretching his arms out long and flat in front of him. Derek copies him on his own mat. Their fingertips brush one another and Scott laughs, scoots his mat back so they have more room to work.

They follow each other through the standard stretches.

“So,” says Scott, “how are things?”

“Braeden’s parents tried to kill me.”

“I don’t believe that.” Scott’s shirt rides up, his belly tickling with gooseflesh as he reaches for the sky.

“They did,” Derek insists, twisting himself in half and to the side. Scott moves with him, their eye contact never breaking. “Did you know her mom has a license to hunt? Because I do, I _definitely_ know it, she only made a point of it five separate times during dinner. When overpopulation occurs, she’s there, with a giant shotgun.”

Scott snorts, wobbles a little in tree position before regaining his balance. “I’m sure they liked you.”

“I mean,” he grins. “They were a little nicer after they saw the ring. I even got to see family scrapbooks.”

“Tell me you took pictures.”

Derek’s expression is downright devious. “Braeden had full headgear braces, _of_ _course_ I have pictures.”

Scott barks a laugh. “I’m sure she pulled them off just fine.”

“Smart. Save yourself from her wrath, since I’m doomed.” Derek and he drop back to the mat on their hands, backs arching. “What about you? What’s going on these days?”

“Well,” he says, “cute barista guy asked me out.”

Derek reaches out for an awkward high five. “You say yes?”

“No, but we’ll see what happens. Oh, Mason and Liam are going to crash at my place for a week while they’re in town, that should be--”

“A nightmare.”

“ _Fun_ ,” says Scott, firmly, mouth twitching with a smile. He moves from crane to angle-eight pose. Derek groans, drops into meditation stance, posture slouching.

“I know you know I hate when you do that. I’m an old man, Scott, I can’t be turning into a pretzel.”

Scott sticks his tongue out. Derek reaches over and throws a yoga ball at him. It bounces away and Scott doesn’t even shake, position securely held.

Derek throws his arms up and collapses backwards against his mat. “Why did I let you talk me into this, anyway?”

“Because,” says Scott, serenely, “after our practice each week you go home and Braeden sees you wearing yoga pants.”

Derek bolts upright, spine perfectly straight. He glares, mutters, “Dammit,” in resignation to Scott’s truth.

-

Scott sleeps for fourteen hours straight and wakes up to the sweetest sunlight seeping through his thin curtains. Birds titter. Someone shrieks with laughter. A bicycle’s spokes spin and spin.

He stretches out, joints popping satisfyingly, curling his toes and indulging in a huge yawn. Sunday morning waits serenely for him to join, the sun reaching over his skin in soft invitation. He grins at his ceiling; something bright sings to him, _you’re gonna be great today._ And an even brighter piece of his heart sings back, _I know._

**Author's Note:**

> [Untitled](http://www.mexicanmuseum.org/permanent-collection/mexican-latin-american-art/untitled)  
> [Agonía](http://www.mexicanmuseum.org/permanent-collection/mexican-latin-american-art/agonia)  
> [Mayan Themes #15](http://www.mexicanmuseum.org/permanent-collection/mexican-latin-american-art/mayan-themes-15)  
> [Tehuana](http://www.mexicanmuseum.org/permanent-collection/mexican-latin-american-art/tehuana)  
> [Woman with Bowl](http://www.mexicanmuseum.org/permanent-collection/mexican-latin-american-art/mujer-con-olla-woman-with-bowl)  
>  i haven't been to the san fransico mexican museum but lmao i would love to, in case u couldn't tell
> 
> if u also enjoy thinking about scott mccall looking in the mirror and being glad to see himself and then crying, come cry w/me on [tumblr](http://katsofmeer.tumblr.com/)


End file.
